


"Is It Your First?"

by RosaClearwater



Series: "Hello, Finch." [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, all of the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: It's one thing to interrupt weekly dinner with vigilantism. It's another thing to interrupt weekly dinners with a baby.





	1. If It's Thursday, It Must Be-- Leila?

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as this is the 50th piece of fanfiction I will be posting on AO3, I just had to make it a special one ;)

_“Harold, how’s it going?”_

 

“Veda? I admit: It’s going rather well for me. But, judging from your tone, I’m guessing this is more than just a social call?”

 

_“Well… You see, I need a favor.”_

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

_._

 

It was with a familiar ease that John approached the door. He smiled, mentally tracing the subtle signs of age that adorned the wood -- the scratches and paint chips probably a decade old, the worn patches of memory that were embedded into brown material. The welcome mat, a fading blue sky depicting a multitude of birds in flight, wearily greeted him as his spied the post Harold had forgotten to bring in.

 

It was Thursday, which meant it was time for their weekly home-cooked dinner together. Originally Harold’s suggestion, this was his way of making sure John got at least one meal that didn’t come from the fast food industry. A lovely tradition that had been occurring for the last few months, it was their guarantee that they’d see each other on a regular basis.

 

So, when the door didn’t open after the first few knocks, John became concerned.

 

“Harold?” Probably useless to speak to a door, but even ex-vigilantes can forget logic in disconcerting situations.

 

A few knocks later, another concerned look was shared between the door and John. A glance was sent towards the window -- nothing seemed off inside, from what little he could detect -- and his eyes unconsciously narrowed in puzzlement.

 

He couldn’t hear any sounds of Bear from inside, he didn’t think any of the lights were turned on, and seeing how Harold hadn’t texted him with a change in plans--

 

His phone was pulled out of his pocket before he even had time to think, speed dial being activated within a second.

 

“Harold?”

 

_“John? Is everything alright?”_

 

“... It’s Thursday.” It almost felt like he were a petulant child as he murmured the words and he definitely felt a little foolish for getting so worked up about a dinner. He waited a beat, preparing himself for anything.

 

_“Oh, that’s right! I’m so sorry -- I had meant to text you earlier. Door’s unlocked, and Leila and I are in the bedroom. Please, make yourself at home!”_

 

“Leila?” The call had already ended before he could even voice the question, but it was that question that kept John from entering the abode just yet.

 

While he had never once heard Harold mention anyone named Leila, the fact that they were both in the _bedroom_ of all places had taken his smile away faster than a bullet. And while John couldn’t just turn around and leave, especially since Harold knew he was here by now, he just had to steel himself and prepare for the inevitable reality that awaited him.

 

_Of course this was becoming too perfect to be true,_ a hand reached for the doorknob and tensely turned it as the bleak thoughts continued to slowly churn. _Why was I stupid enough to even think there was something here for me?_

 

In all of this unexpected self-deprecation, it didn’t strike the ex-vigilante that Harold was a very meticulous person and one who didn’t impulsively act when it came to relationships. No, the only thoughts currently punching the man were ones that mocked his hopeful beliefs that he'd found some sort of home away from the shadows.

 

The man entered quietly, exchanging a guarded glance with Bear as he stepped over the threshold. The Belgian Malinois seemed just as hesitant, as though he knew there was an abnormal change in the atmosphere. That in itself was as bad a sign as any, seeing as how the dog was almost always exuding a cheerful energy around John. 

 

Then it struck the man that Harold had left the front door unlocked. _That_ provided a blissful distraction: he now had an outlet and an excuse to berate Harold for having such a lax security system.

 

(And if this berating wounded up becoming an interrogation into whether this Leila even deserved Harold’s attention, all the better.)

 

The bedroom door was cracked open, and dread marked John’s steps as he slowly made his way over. He instantly forgot about berating anyone. Instead, he was now prepared to make a hasty retreat behind a weak excuse or, worse still, attempt to make it through what was guaranteed to be a horribly awkward dinner.

 

“John, is that you?”

 

What would happen to their Thursday dinners now was unknown.

 

But, if this Leila had somehow won Harold’s heart and was able to give him happiness, well, he'd just have to let this go.

 

“One moment, I think he's here."  _Damn it._

 

Now he really couldn't just leave. 

 

 "Everything alright, John?” It was still Harold speaking, though the ex-vigilante was readying himself for another voice to strike the air. “Or is there a reason the cat seems to have obtained your tongue?”

 

John couldn’t avoid it any longer. He was right outside the door, and already unwillingly opening it further to see--

 

“Is that one of your ties, Harold?”

 

She was situated on the bed, temporarily surrounded by a circle of magazines and books. A spare purple tie was currently being teethed with and drooled on as Harold was temporarily distracted by a phone-call.

 

This hadn’t been in John’s list of possibilities.

 

This hadn’t even been a thought to consider.

 

“Yes, Veda, everything’s quite alright -- John's just arrived to help with dinner and bath duty.”

 

_I have?_

 

“Please, take care of yourself and give my condolences. And, I hope Sammy makes a swift recovery.” A tired smiled turned in John’s direction as Harold’s free hand reached out to retrieve his tie -- probably not for the first time that day. “We’ve got it all taken care of from here.”

 

The baby squealed, turning the teething into a game of tug-of-war as the recluse hung up the phone. A sigh slowly emitted after the call, tainted by both exhaustion and happiness.

 

“I’m afraid I may have done something rather rash, John.” The sheepish confession reminded John to actually step into the bedroom, instead of lurking into the doorway. “Quite necessary, but also rather rash.”

 

Well, this was an explanation he was definitely looking forward to.


	2. "Dadda? Or, Dadda?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title, "John? _John?_ You Trust _Him_ With a Baby?"

 

“So,” John refused to let his inward smirk -- a smirk that only formed due to immense relief -- be tugged to the surface at the unfamiliar sight. “Looks like you’ve been busy, _Harold._ ”

 

The kitchen was one of the few places that truly illustrated Harold’s tendency to organize within chaos. It was a safe haven of comfort and meticulously crafted delicacies. Nothing short of a bomb or a A.I. hellbent on logical world domination could disrupt the methodical layout.

 

Normally, that is.

 

Right now the kitchen has paper towels strewn all over the place, half-washed plates hastily thrown into the sink, little pools of what was hopefully just water coating surfaces, and a squealing six month baby that loved to remind the two men of their current reality.

 

In short, it's domestic hell.

 

And, still, John couldn’t help but mentally snicker at their latest predicament.

 

That is before he started to do damage control -- aka, clear the sink and survey the various zones of destruction.

 

(Harold’s glare at his retreating back certainly helped to expedite the matter.)

 

“As I stated before, I may have been a little too rash.” A sigh. “But, Leila took well enough to me before that with such short notice Veda and I agreed I would be the best choice.”

 

“Before?”

 

“Do you not remember the entire backstory I just gave you, John?” _He’s only speaking from stress,_ was the new mantra, having replaced _s_ _he’s only a baby_ in a heartbeat.

 

“You mentioned Sammy’s fall, the death in the family, meeting Veda in the check-out and bonding over logic puzzles, Harold. Nothing about meeting Leila.”

 

“Oh,” Another sigh. A tired body finally stopped for a moment, if only to properly breathe. “Sorry, I thought I already explained everything.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

There’s silence as Harold flits around John, pulling out more baby food and attempting to coax Leila into having at least a fraction of it.

 

“How about a delicious bottle? How about a delicious bottle?” A snort is buried underneath a cough, causing another sassy glare to shoot out from across the table. “Oh, there you go. Now, who’s a good girl who gets to take a bath with the _ex_ -dog walker?”

  
  
“Harold, Bear _is_ in the room. Should we really tarnish the memory of our first meeting with him like this?”

 

“Well, _John,_ it’s either bath duty or diaper--”

 

“I’ll get the water running as soon as you want me to.”

 

“... That’s what I thought.”

 

_._

 

John’s been able to pull off miraculous things in the past: walk away from explosions and bullet wounds that should have put him in the grave, suffer hours and hours of "training"  that’s meant to destroy him beyond recognition, ask Harold to accompany him to the theater on a rainy afternoon.

 

And, still, finding the perfect water temperature for Leila is proving to be one of the most difficult tasks _ever_.

 

Fortunately, it only takes a few minutes of struggle to make it work.

 

And, even more fortunately,

 

“Need a hand?”

 

It only takes a few more minutes for Harold to join them.

 

__.__

 

There comes a point where it’s clear Harold just doesn’t have the energy to do this all by himself. That he can manage alone if need be (and will manage alone if he deems it necessary), but that he shouldn’t do this alone.

 

John wants to say he’ll spend the night by his side. Instead,

 

“I can--” _Stay the night. Here. With you._ “-- drop by tomorrow after work again if you need me to.”

 

There’s a weary twitch that’s supposed to be a smile.

 

“That’d be nice.” Not great or amazing. Just nice.

 

Never before had the man wanted to kick himself so much.

 

So, he thinks he deserved the ginormous splash of baby drool and water that lands on him when Leila gets a little too curious about her surroundings.

 

_._

 

It’s unfortunately already time to leave.

 

John’s at the door, refusing to let his stride slip into a gallow’s walk. Bear’s observing him curiously, Harold’s distracted by wrapping up just one more check-in call with Veda (the third one of the day apparently).

 

That’s when a cry rings out, calling for help all the way from Harold’s room.

 

Well, the ex-vigilante _has_ spent decades of his life helping others in some way, shape, or form. So, running after one more life is hardly an issue for him.

 

(Aka, he’s speeding off back to the room before Harold has time to reassure Veda everything’s alright and hang up.)

 

Judging from the terror that curled in around Leila that being held doesn't take away, the man’s betting it was a nightmare.

 

When it takes her more than two minutes of being gently rocked back and forth to properly relax, he figures it was a god awful nightmare to say the least.

 

( _Do babies even have nightmares like we do?_ It’s not really the time to ask such a thing, seeing as how Harold has barely managed to barrel into the room himself. Instead,)

 

“Let me stay here tonight.” John’s eyes widen when he realizes it was his own voice that spoke the words.

 

Harold turned to look at his friend, far too eager for the respite to gallantly refuse.

 

“That would be wonderful, John.”

 

(It’s not quite “wonderful” and far more “exhausting” being kept up all night by Leila.

The gratitude remains, all the same.)

 

_._

 

At some point, a smidge amount of sleep is gained for the recluse. With an aching back and a throbbing headache that borders on a migraine -- no one really tells you about this part of parenting -- he finds himself bleary eyed and not-quite-alert at some ungodly hour.

 

And there’s birds. Blithely twittering outside as though it’s dawn.

 

When clearly any sane being would still be fast asleep.

 

_Oh, wait. It_ **_is_ ** _dawn._

 

Even with that revelation, he still deems it to be a terribly ungodly hour.

 

But, at least, he’s not alone.

 

“John?”

 

No response from the guest bedroom.

 

"You there, John?" A little louder, just in case.

 

Still no response from the guest bedroom.

 

“‘Always, Harold.’” Comes the snarky tone as weary bones fling themselves out of bed.

 

But not only is there no sound of his friend, there’s also no sound of the baby.

 

So flinging turns into scurrying to find some damn answers.

 

The answer comes in the form of a baby still out like a light and a note that stubbornly scrawls out the words “I _will_ be back.”

 

The always is unspoken.

 

He can only smile.


	3. "Children. Think That'll Ever [Really] Happen?"

Harold had fallen asleep on the bed with Leila passed out in his arms.

 

He had tried to set up the room into a more appropriate “center-for-baby-interaction”--  the recluse was unable to formulate a better term for the space.

 

But that was before he remembered that it was a part of her routine to nap at this time. And that if he didn’t want to disrupt one of the most time-sensitive schedules he had ever worked with, nap time had to become the current priority.

 

Now she's drooling into his haphazard tie, he’s knocked out, and John can't help but take a picture because it _is_ picture proof that both Leila and Harold were fine.

 

(Veda may have inquired after the both of them after she had been given John’s number in case of an emergency. Said inquiry may have resulted into a brief conversation about endearingly stubborn workaholics, but that was _only_ to compare notes on how to manage such personalities.)

 

Leila stirs for a moment and John prays she’s just snuggling deeper into sleep.

 

After a few seconds, it's apparent that his prayers were not to be answered this time around.

 

After another minute, it’s even more apparent that the only way to escape the incoming chaos is to volunteer to grab supplies -- aka, go grocery shopping.

 

_._

 

“Need a hand?”

 

It’s the second time in as many days he's heard that phrase and John’s developing an appreciation for the question.

 

“Yes.” He shamelessly admits, and the dark skinned woman before him chuckles at the predicament.

 

“Well, for starters,” She reaches over to grab a clean blue package of diapers off one of the higher shelves. “You’re probably going to need more of these.”

 

The woman probably should have been a little concerned -- after all, John’s hardly the type of person who would be in the baby aisle of all places. But, much to his surprise, she’s very kind and incredibly understanding as they sort out Harold’s grocery list.

 

“Looks like your kid’s in good hands.” The woman remarked after the list was completed and the shopping cart was filled. And even though she's not really  _theirs_ \-- and, honestly, they can hardly be considered a couple -- John is proud of the fact that this whole situation has been working out.

 

“Yeah, Harold’s taking great care of her.” He finishes the statement, continuing to revel in the pride before he realizes 1) what it sounds like and 2) the woman might not be as accepting now.

 

Fortunately, she only smiles warmly at the remark.

 

“Well then, I wish you and Harold good luck. You’re definitely gonna need it.”

 

“Thanks,” He’s still pleasantly shocked with the lack of reaction and trails off dumbly as she smiles once more before heading off to finish up her own shopping.

 

It takes him ten minutes to realize he never even asked her name.

 

Unfortunately, by that point, she's long gone.

 

_._

 

“Don’t you knock?”

 

“Not if I can help it.”

 

“Well then, if you can help it, why don’t you go set the table.”

 

“Sure--”

 

“And, while you’re at it, you can get Leila set up in her chair while I finish preparing dinner.” A sharp look provokes a mental groan. “ _If_ you can help it, that is.”

 

_._

 

Dinner consists of getting Leila to consume her food and formula as neatly as she can.

 

Since only Harold’s outfit gets wrecked, John considers this a win.

 

_._

 

Because of John is still in trouble for the “Not if I can help it,” moment, Harold's in charge of cleaning up the kitchen while John gets to run the evening bath.

 

Again.

 

If that gives Harold the pleasure of watching John's clothes get temporarily destroyed, well, turnabout _is_ only fair play.

 

But, Harold truly is a nice person.

 

And, so, it's only after five minutes of laughing at his friend that he decides to finally help.

 

_._

 

Caring for a baby, sharing happiness with a loved one, and the general feeling that comes when you aren’t surrounded by the apathetic shadows… it's an experience John never thought would occur for a person like him, especially in his old line of work.

 

So, John just can't help but feel happy at the sight that's before him.

 

(Said sight includes all of the above).

 

But it's a constricted kind of happy that he feels. The type of happiness where you've forgotten what it means to feel this way because you just haven't allowed yourself to experience anything like it in _many_ years. The happiness that rarely comes to someone constantly surrounded by suffering and violence and dea--

 

“John, would you be so kind as to grab a towel, please? It seems I've forgotten to bring one over.”

 

Leave it Harold to gently bring him out of his thoughts.

 

_._

 

“This flap here, that flap there, see? Neat and simple.”

 

“I see your time at M.I.T. wasn’t wasted.”

 

A snarky remark like that normally would’ve gotten a glare. This time, it was the promise that John would be on his own for diaper duty next time.

 

_._

 

He's lying in the guest bed, unable to fully relax because he's waiting for a cry to emerge or some problem to occur. But all he can hear is a slight snore come from the room next door. That, and the creaks of a home he’s really become accustomed to.

 

And that's when he realizes he has feelings as more than just friends. That the occasional moments where he thought about “what-if” -- and Harold was always there in any capacity -- implied far more than just camaraderie.

 

It’s quite a simple moment for such a mind-spinning, breath-taking realization.

 

And, strangely enough, for once he doesn't dread knowing this kind of realization. He's definitely scared beyond belief and he definitely doesn't think he has a chance in hell of actually having it go any further than a "realization".

 

But, it's less dread and more like anxiety that has a hold on him.

 

_And maybe,_ a tiny part of him whispers in the darkness, _that’s not a bad thing._

 

(The rest of him begs to disagree)

 

__.__

 

The problems with emotions is that once they’re acknowledged, they're very difficult to compartmentalize.

 

And it’s especially impossible to just ignore them.

 

Not even getting smacked in the face with chicken and prunes -- a… disgusting combination, if he’s being honest -- is enough to get him to focus.

 

“John, is everything alright?”

 

“Pretty sure Leila’s supposed to starting the first nap soon, right?”

 

It’s stupid to avoid the subject for too long.

 

Since they both know this, that’s the only reason Harold is currently okay with picking up Leila and dropping the subject.

 

__.__

 

They stand in the doorway, observing their little hellion fast asleep and hoping this remains the case for at least an hour.

 

The recluse turns, puzzlement radiating off of him once more.

 

_What's wrong?_ Is the unspoken message that curious blue eyes relay.

 

John still can't quite give an answer.

 

_._

 

It seems that, even when they're unable to really speak, little angels will always demand a story for bed.

 

It also seems that, for someone who prides himself on his love of books, Harold's library is really lacking in anything for children.

 

So, John has to make due with what he's got for supplies.

 

(Which means _Stress Fractures in Titanium_ is going to masquerade as a children's book tonight and one of them is going to the bookstore in the morning).

 

“Once upon a time,” He starts with an unusually hesitant voice, noticing that she’s giving him all of her attention for once. He feels immediate gratitude, not only for her attention but for the fact that Harold is currently resting and won’t be able to overhear this pathetic excuse for a bedtime story.

 

Because he's got nothing.

 

And he’s starting to realize that, with Leila, he can’t afford to have nothing.

 

“Once upon a time,” The desperate man starts again, hoping some children’s story would come to mind at the words. But he hasn't seen a kid’s film in decades and fairy tales were _never_ a part of his childhood.

 

(Leila's somehow now looking at him in disbelief, as though she knows he's completely at a loss and how dare he be at a loss because fairy tales are always relevant to bedtime and so--)

 

“Once upon a time, in a far off kingdom, there lived a knight named Sir... Reese.”

 

_Oh, yeah, really showing your humility with that. She’s not gonna remember any of this, but nice going._ There's a cringe hidden behind a sheepish smile but he's got to keep going.

 

In any case, a glance at the six month old baby shows that she’s once again riveted by the story and the self-insert, even if she can’t understand a word of it. So, John mentally shrugs and soldiers on because that's what he does.

 

“Sir Reese was tasked with slaying any enemies of the kingdom and protecting the land from anyone who wished to do harm.” Memories start to trigger at this, but now’s not the time. Besides, memories are always begging to be attended to, nothing new there.

 

“The problem was, Sir Reese couldn’t remain a knight forever.” _That’s one way to put it._ “So, one day, he became a vigilante to help defend a smaller part of the kingdom -- New York City.”

 

She squeals at this and, even though he figures she probably still doesn’t have a clue as to what’s going on, it’s… nice.

 

“Yeah. And now, Sir Reese would be able to protect the innocent and defend New York City. Something that's a lot easier than the rest of the kingdom.” _Okay, now she’s starting to fall asleep._

 

But, as with any mission, he knew he had to keep going until it was undoubtedly completed.

 

In this case, that meant seeing drool.

 

(Because Leila, oddly enough, really likes to drool. Or maybe babies just did this all the time. But John hasn't had this kind of experience ever, so he has no idea what's normal. All he knows is she's starting to wake up once again because he’s not continuing with the stupid stor--)

 

“One day, Sir Reese bumped into a peasant while patrolling the land. A handsome and kind peasant by the name of Harold.” Another squeal, though this one’s tired and overtaken by a yawn within seconds. “Yeah, Harold's a cool guy-- peasant. One who likes to work with logic puzzles and solve mysteries. And things like that.”

 

(They really need to make the bookstore a priority tomorrow -- he’s just not cut out for this.)

 

“Now, after many months of hesitation and denial, John realized he couldn’t be both a vigilante and Harold’s friend. He knew that saving people was great, but things were now different. And now he wanted to prioritize his life a little differently. That being said, he also soon realized he wanted to be _more_ than just Harold’s friend.”

 

His eyes now rested their gaze on the floor as the words continued to spill out of him.

 

Like he realized earlier, emotions are difficult to compartmentalize.

 

“So, that’s--” _C’mon, John, just get this over with._ “So, that’s…”

 

And, as he remembered from before, emotions you know about are _really_ impossible to ignore.

 

“So, that’s when Sir Reese realized,” Eyes froze as a sleepy voice sounded from the doorway. “That Harold also wanted to be more than just Sir Reese’s friend.”

 

A jaw dropped more than an inch and petrified eyes managed to widen.

 

“So, even though life goes on after a fairy tale has officially concluded and even though there is technically no ‘Happily Ever After’,” The new narrator quietly limped into the room, unable to refrain from softly smiling as he did so. “They had decided to explain their feelings properly to one another and give being more than 'just friends’ a genuine shot. That is, as Harold would later explain, if Sir Reese were willing.”

 

Well, once the initial shock began to wear off and they were sure that Leila was out like a light, the two soon discovered that Sir Reese was _quite_ willing.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, did I mention that I've decided to make this little ficlet a three-part story? ;D 
> 
> Have a nice day!


End file.
